Impending
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: An encouraging letter added to the fuel. Pre-manga. Implied Tousen x Rukia.


Since it's my first time in the Bleach section, please free to offer any type of constructive criticism. Pairing inspired by a meme (yeah, ya gotta love those things).

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach.

* * *

The painted katakana on familiar paper felt strange beneath his thumb. Running his hand further over the flat, slightly rough surface, he paused over a smoother raised imprint. A wax seal, which must mean a letter. From whom? Another memo from Aizen or yet another all-out complaint from Matsumoto admonishing him for a mishap 'caused' by one of his recipes?

"Delivered from the Thirteenth Division." Hisagi stated in his usual monotone.

Oh.

Perhaps a message from Ukitake? Tousen contemplated whether he ought to feel honored or wary, given the white-haired Captain's penchant for unneeded advice, well-intentioned as it seemed. In some ways, he did owe the man a bit of respect based on nothing more than sheer character alone but water was water, formless and unwilling to shape according to anyone's will.

"Shall I read it out?"

Tousen nodded, willing to nip this would-be lecture in the bud. Ukitake was well-bred and thoughtful, yet hopelessly ignorant of matters that were at best buried deep within one's own psyche.

"Dear Tousen-sama, thank you, first of all, for writing that wonderful article on justice in the time of warfare. I can honestly say that I did enjoy reading it."

Hmph, Ukitake sounded in good spirits. Perhaps that long-thriving malady had decided to reign in its troublesome symptoms for today's sake.

"I was particularly interested in what you had to say on 'bloodless victories'. It is a concept that fascinates me as well, since I sometimes feel that the price of winning heavily outweighs the gain and often tend to reflect on the losses."

Then again, it was highly possible that the letter itself was a sign of the Thirteenth Captain's mental deterioration. Tousen received very little responses, if any at all, in return for his most cherished articles on values he'd condescended to share with the rest of Seireitei's readers. It wasn't that he often expected any either. The path ahead was one only visible to his blackened sight, a sole line of gold winding through the void nexus. A blind man didn't need eyes to dream.

"I do often wonder though on how to contain these losses, on how to reduce the blood that I find streaming beneath my feet in my dreams at night."

Tousen raised his head. With each line read out to him, the chances of the voice registering in his mind containing the calm baritone of Jushiro Ukitake had gradually diminished. But who knew? Perhaps the Captain was indeed the poetic type as his speech had often implied. He knew that Ukitake often wrote in his free time. The sprawling grounds of Ugendo would make for great inspiration.

"But perhaps I am bothering you now with my rambling? Thus, shall I end here with my deepest apologies and humblest regards for your work."

The voice echoing through the ink, through Hisagi's own colorless vocals, remained impermeable still to Tousen's fruitless attempts at grasping its identity. That it couldn't possibly be Ukitake or any of his fawning subordinates, he was now sure of. Mentally rummaging through the list of squad members comprising the distant Thirteenth Division, Kaname Tousen inwardly cringed at the realization of his remaining four senses striking dead ends in their attempts to trace the clues.

"Sincerely, Rukia Kuchiki." Hisagi finished.

So this was it. Incriminating words spewed by noble blood and Tousen had the sheet to prove it. Kuchikis followed rules, not ideals, if he were to judge by the dulled steel in a certain patriarch's tone. Byakuya had long since lost the deadly edge in his speech, if not in his blade.

"Do I know this person, Hisagi?"

"Perhaps. She is Captain Kuchiki's sister. Adopted sister, if I'm not mistaken. Taken in from his late wife's side after she passed on."

Rukia. The name even bespoke an anomaly. He may have heard of that name somewhere before. Possibly in a friendly greeting called out on the streets or in a terse warning on a patrol. Now that he thought about it, it had been a while since the last time anyone, let alone a woman from Gotei 13's inner folds, had written him. Complimenting _his writing_ too, at that. Bemused, he handed a rough copy of next month's publication to Hisagi and bid the lieutenant to complete the required final edit.

Rukia. Kuchiki.

Six tiny feet padded over his clothed shoulder. The sharp tip of a knife-thin wing cut into his cheek.

There was to be a meeting in the next half hour. All captains and their lieutenants were required to attend. The butterfly took off without another word, the scent of death thick on its trail. From the sound of rustling paper and tapping feet, Hisagi had received a similar message.

An hour later, his body slick with the excess of spilt blood and bodily fluids, Tousen pricked his ears at the sound of a now-familiar name.

"Careful, Rukia! This one's a tricky fiend!"

Briefly, the spindly bones of a smaller body pressed against his own as the Hollow's screech wrapped itself around them. He swerved quick enough to avoid the impending strike, the warm swathe of her robes sweeping by his face as she swooped upwards to deal a returning blow. She spoke little but moved much, leaving him alone in the midst of the rapidly dissolving chaos. The crisis now averted, the rest of the squads began to retreat to the comfort of another peaceful night. Reiatsu receding, the cool glow of the moon welcome on sweat-warmed backs and limbs, all to be washed off by tomorrow morning.

Eyes closed, Tousen inhaled.

He could taste the crimson dotting the ground and trees. The smell of murder was almost overwhelming as all deaths were bound to be in the end. Sin and grace, inextricably intertwined, were always destined to fade with the other, a myth that only the chosen among them would know. Whether he would live long enough to see the truth of this belief wasn't a matter that he often mused on.

But with the click of a sword being inserted into its hilt and the remembered words of a new acquaintance-in-the-making, Tousen smiled.


End file.
